Breakfast continues in starts and sputters while everyone reels from Mason’s interruption. The ease is gone. As is my leftover glow from the night before. I’m back in my reality.
After breakfast, I find myself alone in the kitchen with Margaret, loading the dishwasher.
“I’m sorry about Mason,” she whispers. “He’s always been... particular.”
“It’s okay. I’m fine.” My automatic reply.
“No. It’s not, Sydney. No one should be spoken to like that.” Margaret stops me with a hand on mine. Her touch is gentle but firm. “When you walked in ten years ago, I watched you look around this cabin as if you’d never seen a Christmas tree before.”
My throat tightens. “Never one that a designer didn’t color-coordinate.”
“The first time you helped me make cinnamon rolls, your hands shook. Like you were terrified of messing up.”
“I was.”
“But you’ve never gotten it wrong, Sydney. You’re as much a part of this family as anyone born into it. I love you. Gary loves you. You’re a daughter to us. Always.”
I don’t cry—I rarely do—but something inside me exhales.
The words land in that unguarded place she first unlocked ten years ago: a space where a little girl still lives, aching for words of encouragement and kindness from a parent. Words I’ve waited my whole life to hear.
***
“Youdon’thavetobabysit me. I can manage on my own,” James says, stepping into his boots and giving me a guarded smile.
I look around to make sure no one is within earshot and lower my voice. “I don’t enjoy skiing, so my plan involves coffee and reading.”
“Now we’re talking.” He laughs, pulling on a forest green beanie.
Blinding sun bounces off the freshly fallen snow as we climb into the rental car. In the distance, people cut across the pristine landscape. Kids sled down a hill, and a couple glides on cross-country skis. Slowly, the world digs itself out.
James pulls his hat off his head and runs a hand through his hair. He opens his mouth, then shuts it. Before saying, “Why go through with this whole thing? Why not just stay back?”
“Skiing’s the one thing Mason loves about coming up here. I don’t want to ruin that for him. So I play along, pretend I’m more into it than I am. I’ve found little ways to enjoy it.”
I keep my tone light, but I feel him listening harder than I want him to.
His brow furrows, and I pretend not to notice. Pretend he’s not reading the spaces between my words, that he’s not dissecting my marriage from an offhand comment about skiing.
“So you’ve adopted the Wallis motto of passive-aggressive avoidance?” he asks quietly.
I stare at him for a long beat, willing him to look away first. He doesn’t. “I see you have a long way to go in understanding the concept.”
He laughs dryly. “So, what’s our plan?”
“The lodge is connected to the resort’s hotel. I usually stake out a spot with coffee and a book. It’s close enough to meet everyone when they finish skiing.”
“I’ve got a book inside. I can grab it…”
“Nope.” I cut him off. “You need something better than urban planning.”
Instead of turning left toward the resort, I make a right and head into the village.
Seeing the bookstore through his eyes reminds me of my first trip with Jules. The train display is pure magic: tiny animals, gift-wrapped boxes, and miniature plates of food dot the snowy village.
James slows beside me, taking it all in. “Wow. This is incredible.”
“It’s one of my favorite bookstores.” I step closer to admire the scene’s details. “I always try to come here for a new book on Christmas Eve.”
